Insomnia

A story based on a sleepless night I had a few months ago. In actuality, it went on for about another five minutes or so, but... Well... Some things are best left undescribed.

The Nightmare, Henry Fuseli, 1781

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My bladder woke me at 03:30 – and I briefly tried to convince myself that I could hold it until the alarm went off; but the bastard part of my brain, the piece that visualizes dripping taps and waterfalls and gurgling drains, had more immediate ideas. Pulling back the covers as quietly as I could, I padded through the cold darkness to the bathroom, careful not to stub my toe on the laundry basket, or tread on the cat as I so often do.

I fumbled for the light, which only had two settings, ‘Off’ and ‘The heart of a supernova’, or so it felt in the early hours of the morning when the house was quiet and peaceful but for the hushed snores of my wife and slightly louder ones from the dog in the next room. I screwed my eyes closed and tried to flip the switch slowly, willing the light to fade into life, rather than springing upon me like a startled leopard. I saw details of the bathroom furniture through my tightly closed lids and could almost hear the sizzling noise as my retinas shrank.

Immediate business completed, I washed up and tried to put the hand-towel back on the radiator through pupils the size of pinpricks. Turning the light out as I left plunged me into the darkness usually reserved for particularly deep dwelling badgers and professional kidnapees. I stumbled back into bed, offering thanks to whoever had initially thought of en-suite bathrooms for making it so that I didn’t need to go out onto the landing and enter the domain of the inquisitive, but vision impaired, dog that sometimes haunted the corridors.

Pulling the covers up to my neck, I chanced a look at the clock. The bright green LED numbers displayed 03:37. I closed my eyes, planted my feet flat on my wife’s previously warm thighs, smiling at her grunt of mild discomfort as she turned over, and tried to go back to sleep.  The clock showed 03:51 and my attention was drawn to the light shining from the gap above the curtains. Was it getting lighter? The sun doesn’t usually rise until 06:30, until after I had fought my way out of bed, which meant that the sun was lazier than I was, or significantly more clever. But what if it was Saturday? Is it Saturday today? I looked at the clock and saw the single LED in the corner that showed me that the alarm had been intentionally set; so no, it wasn’t Saturday. Perhaps it was a Bank Holiday and I had set the alarm in error – There’s always that hope. I thought about setting the alarm on a Friday night, just so that the alarm would sound at ‘Stupid O’clock’ on the Saturday morning and I could just turn it off, roll over, and go back to sleep, with all the feelings of empowerment that came with it. I thought of my own confusion, I thought of the dead-arm that would unquestionably result when my wife discovered what I’d done, I hastily thought better of my plan. It was 04:07, less than two hours until the alarm went off and the repetitive electronic screaming presided over the birth of another dull, soul-less day.

I stared at the wall between the wardrobe and the door to the hallway.  It seemed darker than the rest of the wall. It wasn’t a shadow, the dim light from the curtains bathed that entire wall, but the specific area I looked at was darker, and the longer I looked at it, the darker it became.  I scanned along the wall, until I was looking at one of the small pictures that my Wife had bought in a desperate bid to give the room some ‘character’. I remembered that old writing exercise where lazy English teachers ask you to write a story about a generic picture that had far too many elements for you to adequately cover in your allotted time. Mine invariably featured devious Lovecraftian experiments, or an underground butchery ring, or a trusted upstanding member of the community being unveiled as a cannibal. Jesus Christ, was it any wonder that none of my writing ever sold? If you look up the words ‘Formulaic’ or ‘Derivative’ in the dictionary, there was a picture of me, looking self-satisfied. In later editions, I often had a revolver pressed to my temple. In the Children’s editions, it had a flag, with ‘BANG!’ written on it sticking out of the barrel.

My eyes lowered to a point on the wall directly below the picture; almost immediately, the wall began to darken in a clearly delineated circle around the point I was staring at. Sweet Baby Jesus, I was going blind! At the very least it was cataracts, I’m not even 50, a failed, derivative writer, trying to make enough money to keep himself and his family fed on a diet of watery soup and second-hand crackers.  My children would point and laugh at my crumpled Dickensian form, panhandling for sixpence pieces by the side of the road. My wife would leave me for her tennis coach and she doesn’t even have a tennis coach. She would take the last of our money, hire a tennis coach, and leave me for him. I would change my name to Michael de Santa.

04:21. Should I just get up? I could see if I’d had any more life-affirming ‘likes’ on Facebook. I could go through my backlog of unopened emails to see if my Agent had received any life-changing acceptance letters. I could see if those pictures from my tequila party were ‘Trending’ on Twitter. Who am I kidding? I’d either be playing an on-line game until I made myself late for work, or opening an ‘Incognito Window’ on Chrome and hoping the floorboards didn’t creak too rhythmically and wake someone up before I had experienced a personal ‘petit-mort’.

I’ll make a cup of tea. Can I be bothered to make myself a cup of tea? Maybe coffee? Maybe I could make a pot of coffee and score some brownie points with the wife when she woke up. Would it stay warm long enough? It was 04:45, it’d be close. I’ll do that, I’ll make a pot of decent coffee.

I woke up to hands on my chest, warm hands, a palm resting gently on each of what I laughingly call my pecs, but everyone else calls ‘moobs’. I slowly open my eyes to the yellowish light streaming through the kitchen window, a bright day, a warm day. I’m lying on the coffee table, maybe eighteen inches off the ground. The smell of fresh coffee permeating the air. I look up, along the bare arms of my masseuse, to the shoulder of the fitted mini-dress, rising to a thin, pale, neck, sporting a golden necklace finer than a human hair, from which hung a gold and diamond crucifix nestling in the valley where her translucent skin was barely covered by the sheer material. I blinked, trying to clear the slight blurring of my vision, “Aren’t you…”

She smiled, “Just call me Madeline.” She took a step forward, her manicured nails moving through the hairs on my chest, down to my stomach; her parted thighs gently brushing the tops of my ears.

“Madeline… Smith? I saw a film with you in it… Last night… You were…” It was then that the alarm chose, in its infinite wisdom, to go off.

We don' need no steenking dipthongs

This isn't a new blog, I originally published it on the 23rd. January 2013... It was one of my first - I've updated it a little because things have changed over time (as things tend to do) - If you remember it, you should feel free to skip to the bottom and see what I'm banging on about.

-oOo-

Today's Blog was suggested by my good friend @PedroVader1138 - The basic premise that is, not the theme. I mean, he's not mad or anything.

It's the (almost completely) true account of the Micro-Dandy's first, confirmed, lone kill. Only the setting, era, style, state and type of target, age of hunter, language and most of the other salient facts have been changed to maintain its artistic merit.

-oOo-

The hunter lay hidden in the snow, the cold dampness soaking into his furs as he looked down the ridge at the village below. All was quiet, the only movement, apart from the curl of smoke rising from the long-house chimney, was the sullen dawdle of the single huscarle on guard outside as he circled the building, whistling a tune that Mal Ak'hai didn't recognise. The full moon caught the boss of his shield, and brought the raised kraken motif into sharp relief.

He rose slowly from his prone position and brushed the loose snow from his furs. Moving around the ridge until the whistling huscarle was directly between him and the main building, not wanting his approach to look like he was trying to sneak and cause alarm. It took the man on guard a few minutes to notice his approach.

'Stoppe der!', He yelled, slowly raising his sword.

'I am here to see the Krakensdottir,' shouted Mal, the snow deadening the echo so that his voice sounded flat and emotionless, 'I have heard of your problem, I am here to help.'

The sword was lowered, equally slowly, to be replaced with an empty hand,

'Vent her,' ordered the guard, pointing at the spot where the hunter was stood, his Norse was rusty, but he knew enough to stay where he was.

The door opened and closed, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He looked up into the clear night sky, noticing that the constellation of Orion was directly over his head, and laughed, if that wasn't a good omen, he didn't know what was. He could hear the grumble of conversation from inside the long-house, the few words he could pick out made it plain they were talking about Him,

'Jeager... Frysning... Daemon... Ubevaebnet...'

The last one confused him... He was indeed a hunter, and he was definitely freezing, he was here to help with their demon problem, but unarmed? He wasn't unarmed, he looked down at the hilt of his sword, Lyssvaerd, clipped to his belt. Stroking the smooth length of hand forged sky-iron he smiled, he was about as far from unarmed as it was possible to be.

The opening of the door and a beckoning hand drew him back from his thoughts. He entered the long-house and was immediately blinded by the sheer number of torches that lined the walls and the size of the bane-fire in the middle, he was surprised that any snow survived within a mile.

'Hvad er dit navn?' Asked an aged man, clad in wolf fur and strips of studded leather.

'My name? My name is Mal Ak'hai, I am a hunter from the south, I heard that you had a problem with a d...'

'Pschh!' spat the old man, putting his hand in front of the hunter's mouth and stopping him talking. 

He turned to look at a figure that was barely visible beyond the fire and called,

'Hans navn er Mal Ak'hai! Han er en jeager fra sid!'

'I understand the language of the south, bring him to me.' The female voice, though obviously strong, conveyed notes of tiredness and stress.

He was led by the elbow around the fire and towards the voice. The heat seared his face as he passed, close enough to see the pile of crumbling bones at its heart. He looked up, into the face of Alfrun Krakensdottir, new leader of the Kraken clan, ever since her father had died on their last raid to Vinland, she had led the hundred or so remaining norsemen to times of plenty and prosperity. Until, that is, they had come upon their current trouble.

'Failures,' she said, noticing where he had been looking.

'Failures?'

'Yes, we recover the remains of people like you and burn them, it speeds their journey.'

She stared deep into the fire, 'I'm sure it does.'

'Yours will be the 17th body that we burn.' 

Alfrun looked at him with sadness, and a certain amount of longing. She thought that he was handsome, at least in the style of the south, but his hair was blonde and he would have had no problem passing for a Norse prince, if he survived.

'What makes you so sure that you'll be burning my remains? If you don't think anyone can succeed in this quest, why have you had your men travel the country asking for help?'

'We were looking for a hero, one that we could write sagas about, one who's song would be passed down through the ages, that is not you, you come unarmed to the fight.'

'Unarmed?' He looked down at Lyssvaerd, hanging unnoticed at his side, then back up at the warrior queen, 'I will do this thing for you, and I will not be more fuel for your fire.'

'You will go alone to the clearing in the forest to the east of here, that is where the demon makes his home. You must stop him, he raids our farms and kills our children, we find our animals frozen when the sun comes up and the well is solid ice. We cannot last much longer, there will be a bounty... and more'

The hunter bowed, turned, gave the bane-fire one last meaningful glare and walked out into the night, ignoring the shaking heads of the assembled norsemen and their hushed mumblings,

It took two hours for him to reach the clearing. The moon shone down creating short shadows which could serve only as hiding places for rabbits; the demon was not there. The recent snow had covered the tracks of previous heroes, but large patches tinged gently pink showed where they had met their end. He walked slowly, but confidently, out into the moonlight, took Lysswaerd from her thonging and called out to his prey.

'Come and face your end, demon, I have come to save the people of the Kraken clan, leave them in peace or die!' His words echoed around the forest, but apart from a fall of snow triggered by a bird roused from his slumber, there was no reply. 'Filth! come and face me, stop hiding behind your mother's skirts and fight, I am your doom!'

With the sound of a calving glacier, the snow behind the hunter began to rise, climbing into the night sky one hundred feet or more. Its features slowly resolved into those of a demon, with a goat's head and human body.

'Jeg er Hati, der spiser manen!' it howled, it's voice like the tumbling of thunder.

'You are Hati, and you eat the Moon?' Shouted the hunter, 'Why would you eat the Moon?'

The demon paused, looked down in momentary confusion, and replied with a swipe of his giant claws. The hunter jumped aside at the last moment and pressed the stud on the side of Lyssvaerd. A shining blue blade sprung from the hilt and severed the demon's paw at the wrist, as it fell, it turned back into pure, virgin powdered snow. The demon howled even louder, shaking the snow from the trees, and spun around to find his rapidly circling foe.

'Last chance demon!' Screamed the hunter, and held his glowing sword high above his head.

The demon lunged, changing form into a giant dire-wolf with it's maw open, breathing a plume of hoar-frost. The hunter jumped back just out of range of the freezing blast, but tripped on a root hidden under the snow and fell heavily, stunning himself. The impact jarred his sword from his hand and the blazing blade disappeared with a hiss.

Sensing that the game was nearly over, Hati reared once more. He inhaled deeply, intending to freeze the hunter to his very core and stamp him onto shards so small that his bones could never be burned. The giant wolf's head fell towards the hunter, it's icicle teeth bared, the howl of the coming ice-storm reverberated from the far foothills and his eyes closed as the strike came. The hunter rolled, grabbed his sword, loosed the blade, and severed the demon's head with a single stroke. With a sound like the breaking of a thousand glass pianos, the demon exploded into chunks of ice and fell to the ground. As dead as it was possible for a demon to be.

The hunter lay panting in the debris, trying to get his breath back. He looked around the glade, trying to find some proof that the battle had actually taken place, if someone happened across the scene now it would just look like he'd been smashing a block of ice, and none too expertly at that. His eye chanced upon a glinting object, slightly brighter than the surrounding snow. He levered himself to his feet and picked it up, it was a spherical diamond, the size of a watermelon, when he held it up to the sky, he could see the feint impression of a wolf's eye. This would be his proof, and his dowry, Alfrun Krakensdottir would be his queen, and his saga would be told until the Earth froze.

(OK, what actually happened was my son knocked the head off the snowman we'd all built with a stick... But who'd want to read about that?)

If you're interested in what happens next, you could always read the next installment 'What a waste of good pork'

-oOo-

Why have I reissued this story you might ask? - Well, It's World Book Day today (2nd March 2017) and Facebook reminded me of a day, one year ago, where my son went to his school's World Book Day celebration as Mal Ak'Hai Jeageren - He even took a copy of my book 'Mumblings of an Irate Pangolin' with him, to show that he was really a book character... Not that anyone really cared, but he's a stickler for the rules.

My son as Mal Ak'Hai Jeageren, with his bladeless sword, Lyssvaerd